


J is for Jealousy

by Zeplerfer



Series: Alphabet Smut [7]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Japan in June, M/M, Tsunderes that can't communicate, UKUS, USUKUS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7158317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeplerfer/pseuds/Zeplerfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England hates the way France flirts with America, but his jealousy grows much worse when he spots the two nations going on dates during a world meeting. What happens after he confronts America surprises them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	J is for Jealousy

There is something entirely too familiar about the way France grips the back of America’s chair and leans in for a quiet conversation during their afternoon break. Even worse is the secretive smile that crosses America’s lips. He laughs at something France says and then whispers back, managing to turn down the volume of his booming voice. They are obviously planning something and just the thought of it makes England’s stomach turn.

He clenches his fingers around his foam cup and strides forward, reclaiming his seat next to America. (The United States and the United Kingdom _belong_ together, after all.) Setting his cup on the conference room table, he silently glares at France, who merely returns his scowl with a wink and a lazy smile.

“Such marvelous ideas,” France purrs flirtatiously at America. “Merci!”

“No prob,” America replies cheerfully, giving France a warm smile as the other country returns to his own seat on the far side of the conference table.

“What was that about?” England demands as soon as France is out of earshot. He knows he doesn’t have any claim to America, not anymore, but he still hates the flirtatious way France drapes himself over the younger nation.

“Nuthin’ much.” America shrugs and fiddles with his pen instead of meeting England’s gaze. “He just wanted some ideas for birthday presents.”

“Oh? I always thought he had enough ideas of his own,” England grumbles, ideas like the stupid Statue of Liberty that mocks him whenever he visits New York. He hates being reminded of the time in his history when America openly preferred France. Unfortunately for him, the increasing closeness of the United States and the United Kingdom as allies has not improved England and America’s personal relationship.

With a polite cough, Japan calls the world meeting back to order and starts his presentation. England tries to pay attention, but his gaze keeps flickering back to America and France and the conspiratorial glances that pass between them.

England first suspected the two of amorous relations during the Revolutionary War, when France joined the fight at America’s side, and his suspicious were confirmed with the lavish gift France gave America for his centennial. It makes sense in a way—the two share a love of food and freedom… and perhaps another f-word that England doesn’t care to think about. But what he can’t understand is their level of secrecy. America seems the sort to broadcast his relationship status to the entire world. Yet aside from some flirting during meetings, the two are incredibly subtle about their affair. Perhaps that is France’s influence.

By the time the meeting adjourns for the day, England has to throw out what is left of his tea because it is bitter from seeping too long. He winds his way through the crowd of nations and ignores their excited chatter about dinner plans. Seeking peace and quiet that he won’t find in their noisy hotel, he heads outside to the nearby gardens.

As England crosses the street and enters through the park’s northern gate, he admires the irises and hydrangea and the vast green landscapes that mimic the English countryside. His headache gradually recedes amidst the peaceful greenery. He ambles along the paths and enjoys the evening breeze. Lost in a pleasant daze, England almost misses the two familiar figures walking along the rose bushes in the French formal garden.

Before they can look his way, he ducks behind a tree. He frowns as he gets a better look. France and America stroll along the garden path, walking hand-in-hand. Not far from England’s hiding place, America smiles and bends down to sniff one of the roses. England’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. When was the last time he saw America wear such a soft, sweet smile? And how long had it been since America directed that expression at him?

England’s heart races as France and America continue strolling toward his hiding spot. He waits for them to pass by on their way to smell another rose, and, with neither the wiser, he flees the no-longer-peaceful gardens.

* * *

England is _not_ in a good mood the next morning. Not after a night of fitful sleep, filled with nightmares about what France and America did once they finished their garden stroll. Putting off the sight of them together as long as he can, he waits to go downstairs until the meeting is about to begin. His spirits darken even further when he opens the conference room door and sees France handing America a tray of freshly baked pastries.

“Mmm—mese rrr melicious mmance!” America cries as he gobbles three éclairs, a pain au chocolat, and two profiteroles.

“Merci beaucoup,” France replies with a flirty smile. “I should have made more!”

“I thought we agreed on no food at world meetings?” England asks tartly as he takes his seat. He assiduously ignores the mouth-watering aroma of the lone croissant sitting on a platter at the center of the table. A second later, a hand snatches it away.

“No, we agreed _you_ wouldn’t brimmng foodmm,” America reminds him, his words somewhat muffled as he stuffs the final croissant into his face with a look of rapturous pleasure.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” England retorts.

America rolls his eyes. “Geez. Who pissed in your cereal?”

“I don’t eat cereal. I just think we ought to stick to business at hand instead of… personal matters. These meetings are a time to get work done, not… stop and smell the roses.”

“Pfft. You’re just jealous that France can cook better than you.”

“A blind hamster could cook better than him,” somebody adds, drawing a snicker from the gathered nations. England glares, but he can’t make out the culprit.

“Ahem! Speaking of business…” Japan interjects. He manages to start the meeting with polite efficiency. England listens with half an ear as they discuss allegations of currency manipulation, but his eyes turn to catch the amused glances that France sends America’s way.

England stabs his notepad with his pen hard enough to tear the paper. Muttering to himself, he bends down to grab another notepad from his briefcase.

As the morning session drags on, he drinks cup after cup of black tea to stay focused, with limited success. Nature eventually calls and he finds himself sharing the washroom with France during the mid-morning break. “You two have been more blatant than usual,” England grumbles as they both wash their hands at the sink.

“Oh?” France arches an eyebrow, looking mildly amused. “I wouldn’t call it _blatant_ if it took you this long to notice.”

Although England wants to ask how long they’ve been dating, he knows it isn’t his business. America made that fact clear long ago. Instead he takes a deep breath and dries his hands with the hotel’s soft paper towels. “Just… be good to him,” he says softly. “I know he hasn’t been my colony for a long time, but I still care about his wellbeing.”

“Ah.” France’s expression softens. “I’m sure he would be happy to hear you say that. He still thinks of you as a brother.”

“I know.” England nods and heads back into the meeting room. He refuses to let the hurt show on his face. Of all the hateful things France has ever said to him, somehow that one cuts the worst.

* * *

After surviving an afternoon session filled with America and France’s knowing glances, all England wants to do that evening is drink himself into a blissful stupor and forget that America or France even exist. The other nations pick a different drinking hole for their nightly revelry, leaving England free to enjoy the hotel bar in relative peace.

The bar is dimly lit and elegant, with bartenders wearing nice suits and sake bottles lining the walls. England sits down on a stool at the far end of the counter and tells the bartender to put the drinks on his hotel tab. That way he won’t have to worry about paying the bill when he staggers back to his room. It’s the final night of the conference, so it doesn’t matter if he wakes up completely hungover the next day.

His first shot of rum arrives quickly and he downs it just as fast. It burns his throat, almost as painful as seeing America and France walking together in the garden. England shakes his head furiously and orders another. The bartender gives him a strange look, but quickly refills his glass.

England lifts the shot glass to his lips. He hasn’t had that much to drink, so he knows he’s not seeing things when he spots two blonds out of the corner of his eye. He nearly drops his drink as France and America casually walk through the hotel bar together. Oblivious to his presence, they slip into one of the dark booths at the back of the establishment. France leans over the table and plants a kiss on America’s lips.

He can’t bear to watch. England leaves the glass on the counter and slips away, out into the lobby before they can notice his presence. In his rush to catch the next elevator, he stumbles and slams into the back of someone’s broad, firm shoulders.

“Hey, watch it!” the man complains. He turns around and England finds himself staring in shock at America’s handsome blue eyes. The elevator doors close behind him, leaving the two of them alone in the walnut-lined elevator as it smoothly ascends.

England can’t believe his eyes. “America?” he asks.

“The one and only!” the other nation replies with a grin.

“But you were just in the bar.”

“Uh… no?” America looks amused. “Sounds like _you_ were just in the bar,” he replies with an aggravating laugh. “Drunk already, old man?” He reaches his hand out to clasp England’s shoulder, but England shoves it away.

“Yes you were! I saw you kissing France!”

“What?” America stares at him and laughs again.

“Don’t try and deny it.”

“Dude, I wasn’t kissing France.” A smug grin crosses America’s handsome face. “But I bet I know who _was_.”

The elevator dings as they reach the top floor. America steps off and England follows closely behind, unsure whether he should be angry at America’s blatant lies or hopeful that somehow America is telling the truth. Without really meaning to, he follows America into his hotel room. The lights of downtown Tokyo cast a dim glow in the room, illuminating the king bed and a nearby pile of clothing scattered across the floor. America doesn’t bother turning on the lights, but England can see well enough to recognize the mess. It’s what he imagines when he thinks about America’s bedroom—clothes strewn about, papers messily spread across the desk, and the bed left unmade. The twisted white sheets are a complete mess and there are two pillows on the bed. England clenches his fist.

America tosses off his tie and jacket, letting them land on the floor. He sprawls onto the chair next to the bed and tilts his head at England. “You really care that much about who’s dating France, huh?”

England shakes his head. “I don’t care who’s dating France.”

“Yeah, right.” America rolls his eyes. “I can see the way you watch him in meetings.”

“The way _I_ watch him?” England sputters. “You’re the one he always flirts with!”

“And you hate when he flirts with other people,” America says, sounding oddly bitter.

“No, I don’t! I just…” England snaps his mouth shut rather than admit that he doesn’t care about France’s flirtations in general. Just the ones he directs toward America.

“Look,” America continues, “I know you’ve got a huge thing for France, but I’m not going to let you ruin this. I haven’t seen Canada so happy in _years_.”

“I have no intention of ruining… wait, Canada?” The name stirs a hint of memory of a soft, sweet smile. The pieces begin to fall into place and England feels a huge wave of relief rushing over him. “So when he asked about a birthday present…?”

“Something for Canada,” America confirms.

That’s right, Canada’s birthday is also coming up. A second later, the feeling of relief passes as he realizes that France is seducing his sweet ex-colony. “Like hell I’m going to let that pervert date Canada!” England growls as he turns toward the door.

America jumps out of his chair and grabs England by the upper arm before he can leave. “He doesn’t care about you, England! Why can’t you see that?” he demands angrily.

Surprised by the vehemence in America’s voice, England slowly turns around. He recognizes the look in America’s eyes. It’s an emotion he knows all too well. Poor America—in love with France but willing to step aside to ensure his brother’s happiness. It’s remarkably kind and he sympathizes with America’s pain. It hurts to know that the one you love will never be yours.

“Well, of course France doesn’t care about me,” England replies blithely. They fought a little too often for true affection. “I just don’t want him to hurt Canada.”

“Oh.” America lets go of his arm. “You don’t gotta worry about that. I already warned France what would happen if he hurt my brother.” He grins mischievously, and somehow England is certain that the warning involved a chainsaw and a promise about what would happen to France’s vital regions. He just wishes he could have seen it for himself.

“I see.” England pauses as America’s words sink in. “ _You_ think of Canada as a brother?” he asks. At America’s nod, he continues, “And _I_ think of Canada as a brother. So does that mean…?”

America flushes. “We’re _not_ brothers.”

“Right.” England nods with relief. “Definitely not brothers.”

They stand in awkward silence for a few more moments as America stares at him suspiciously. “If you don’t care about France, why were you upset?” he finally demands.

“I wasn’t upset,” England lies.

“Uh huh. You normally barrel into people in the elevator like you’re being chased by a troop of evil flying monkeys?”

“I was merely surprised. I hadn’t realized France and Canada were dating.” Saying the words brings a wonderful lightness to England’s chest. He hates to feel pleasure at America’s pain, but now he knows that France will be keeping his hands off America. At least for a little while.

America still looks dubious. “Promise me you’re not gonna try to break them up.”

“I promise,” England says, giving his word easily. In fact, he might even try to help nudge their relationship along (anything to keep France occupied!), but America doesn’t need to know that. England sees the unusually grim expression on America’s face and it makes his heart hurt. In the comforting darkness of the room, he reaches out to pat America’s shoulder. “You’re a good brother. I know it hurts to see him with someone else.”

“Not really hurts.” America sighs and then chuckles to himself. “It’s just kinda irritating when your younger brother is getting more action than you, y’know?”

“You’re not…?” England starts to ask as his heart skips a few beats. Despite his worst fears, America’s bed is as empty as his. The dim lighting of the room lets England feel that he can be a little more candid than usual. “Me either,” he admits. One more thing they have in common.

America sucks in a breath and takes a step closer. “You know, we could fix that,” he suggests in a low, husky voice. England knows that America is only offering to sleep with him because he lost France to his younger brother. He shouldn’t take advantage of America’s pain, but he wants him too much. America’s words are all the invitation he needs.

England pushes America against the dresser and kisses him the way he has always imagined in his dreams. Yearningly, passionately, desperately, endearingly, savoring every second like this might be the only time he ever tastes America’s mouth. His dreams hadn’t included the rim of America’s glasses pressing into his cheek. They also hadn’t included the amazing trick America was doing with his tongue inside England’s mouth. He had been expecting youthful exuberance, but America is surprisingly tender and considerate. His hands run smoothly down England’s back, gently lifting up England’s shirt as waves of pleasure cascade up and down England’s body.

They stumble together toward the bed. England kicks off his shoes and tosses his tie to the side before he pins America down onto the untidy white sheets. America’s back is pressed against the bed and his legs dangle off the side. England grips the sheets on either side of America’s broad shoulders and kneels on the bed with his legs straddled around America’s strong thighs.

America looks up with half-lidded eyes and gives him a lazy grin from the bed. Even laying beneath England, he still exudes complete confidence.

Pants tightening, England takes a deep breath and drinks in the sight. “We should take this slow,” he says as he unzips America’s slacks.

“Yeah, no need to rush,” America agrees. He slowly unbuttons England’s white dress shirt one button at a time. He leans forward and undoes the final one with his teeth, nearly undoing England in the process. The shirt hangs open, fluttering above America as he reaches up to touch England’s lean chest and tweak his sensitive nipples.

“ _Nnngh_ ,” England moans softly, eyes closing in pure bliss. How does America know exactly the right spots to touch? Or maybe, just because it’s America touching him, every spot is the right one. He opens his eyes and reaches down to unbutton America’s shirt. When he’s finished, England pauses to admire the broad expanse of tanned skin. He has imagined America naked before, but his brain hasn’t quite been able to guess how amazing it would feel to brush his fingers across America’s smooth skin and draw soft moans from America’s throat. He feels another twinge of guilt, but it’s not enough to stop him.

England bends forward and feathers kisses along America’s muscular chest. Maybe if he’s good enough, he can make America forget about France. At least for one night.

“Lube?” England asks.

“Got some Vaseline on the nightstand,” America replies, gesturing toward a travel-size bottle sitting next to his glasses case and another pile of papers.

“Vaseline isn’t ideal,” England replies.

America shrugs. “I’ve done it with olive oil. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

England feels another stab of jealousy. “This isn’t your first time.”

“No,” America confirms with a throaty chuckle. “I’m not a 400-year-old virgin.”

“Who was it?” England has to know.

“Not who you’re thinking.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

America rolls his eyes. “You’re obviously thinking about France.”

“Well, you two were thick as thieves during the war,” England retorts. He doesn’t need to specify which war. They both know.

“France called me a baby. It wasn’t until much later…” America starts to say before his brain catches up with his mouth and he shuts up.

“Oh.” England thinks he should find some relief in the fact that he wasn’t completely wrong about France and America, but relief is the very opposite of what he feels. There’s just the dark pit in his stomach that fears America will always like France better than him. And why shouldn’t he? France is pleasant and flirtatious and a good baker. He’s everything one could hope for in an _amour_ —he would make sweet love and then cook you a fantastic breakfast in the morning. “I don’t want to talk about France.”

“That’s the best thing you’ve said all night,” America agrees, grinning as he lifts his hips and starts to shimmy out of his slacks and underpants. England helps him undress, pulling the navy slacks and red boxers to the floor. Despite his misgivings, England is hard as a rock as he pulls down his own pants around his knees. Standing at the edge of the bed, he reaches for the Vaseline and warms up a generous dollop between his hands.

It’s easy to forget about France as he fingers America. England takes his time, stretching America while the other nation moans in pleasure. His dreams will never be the same again now that he knows how much America likes being fingered. His face is flushed and shiny as he begs England to hurry up. He wants to tease America until he’s a gibbering mess, but England is too desperate for his own release. He wedges a pillow beneath America’s back and lifts up his legs, exposing the younger nation’s perfect ass into the air at exactly the right height. With a breathless moan of pleasure, England thrusts into America from his position standing at the edge of the bed, thighs pressed tightly against the soft mattress.

Determined to give America the best sex of his life, England reaches for America’s hard cock and jerks it in time to his thrusts. He tries to last as long as possible, but the sounds of America’s happy moans and the delirious feeling of tight warmth leave him completely debauched and breathless after only a few thrusts. He orgasms first and moments later feels America’s sticky cum covering his fingers. England collapses next to the other nation, his pants tangled around his legs as they dangle off the bed.

America rolls onto his side and gives him a cheeky smile. “You’re pretty good at this. Almost as good as you-know-who.” At England’s sour expression, America laughs. “Just kidding!”

It takes all of England’s strength not to suffocate him with a pillow.

After a few minutes breather, he grabs his scattered pieces of clothing and carries them into the bathroom. He washes off and pulls on his boxers and the white dress shirt. It’s much too large for him—he must have grabbed America’s by mistake. England sniffs the collar and enjoys the faint aroma of America’s spicy cologne. It’s warm and cozy and everything he wants from America but will never have.

He hears America’s steps approaching, giving him enough time to splash his face with cold water to hide the tears welling in his eyes.

America strolls into the bathroom wearing just his boxers. He gives England an odd look as he notices the too-large shirt. “You know, I’m here anytime you don’t want to think about France,” he offers casually, a reminder that this is nothing more than casual sex.

England flinches when he hears that name.

“Shit.” America looks crestfallen. “This was a bad idea, wasn’t it?”

“Probably.”

“I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.”

“What?” England turns around to face America, completely mystified. “You didn’t take advantage of me.”

“I didn’t?”

“No.”

“Oh, I get it.” America’s eyes slowly widen. “You want to make France jealous!”

England snorts. “Please. Unlike you, I don’t care what France thinks.”

“You hated when he kissed Canada,” America says accusingly.

“Because I thought he was kissing _you_ , you numpty!” England’s voice echoes in the bathroom as they both stare at each other in shock. America’s mouth opens and closes and he gapes like a fish stranded on land. Just a few steps away, England pales and flushes, realizing he has made a confession he never intended to make.

"You don't like France!" America cries in relief. "All this time, I thought..." he shakes his head and smiles at England. It's then that England realizes what America thought. He had seen England watching France constantly and drawn the completely wrong conclusion.

"You were wrong," England whispers.

America grins. "So were you."

Being wrong had never felt so right. Despite the overwhelming evidence in front of him, including the fact that America had just _slept_ with him, England is still surprised when the other nation grabs him by the waist and kisses him passionately. He relaxes into the kiss. It feels like a dream and he supposes it is—he must have gotten very drunk downstairs and this is all just a wonderful dream where America loves him instead of France.

There’s certainly a dreamlike quality as America leads him back to the bed and kisses him senseless. The city lights twinkle in the window and he feels like he’s floating on air. England loses himself in the cascading waves of pleasure as America stretches him and then fills him completely. He digs his fingers into the soft bedsheets and cries out as he arches his back. It feels so good. He never wants it to end.

He sees stars flash as he comes and slips into darkness wrapped in warm arms.

* * *

England wakes up slowly, surrounded by pleasant warmth. He blinks at the sunlight that comes through the curtains and notices the clothing scattered across the floor. America snores next to him, one arm still wrapped around England’s waist. If this is a dream then it’s the best sort of dream, because it’s the kind he can wake up to every day.  

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I write turns into fluff. Even the angst :D


End file.
